Miles to Nowhere
by Laura1
Summary: Abby hears some bad news, so she and Carter go on a road trip.
1. Default Chapter

_Disclaimer ~ _Don't own 'em; never will, never likely to. 

_Timeline ~ _Sometime after the end of S7.

_Notes ~ _It's late at night and I'm bored, so I thought 'hey, I'll diversify into ER fic'. The pairing is Abby/Carter, since he is exceedingly lovely and deserves a nice girlfriend at last, even if she does appear a little mixed up by my standard of angst. 

_~~~_

Miles to Nowhere

_ _

The road stretches out in front of us, an endless ribbon of grey tarmac reaching far, far into the distance. It disappears into eternity and that's where we'll follow it. 

I automatically lean over to turn up the car's air-conditioning, desperate for some respite from the scalding heat. But the dial is already turned to the max. Sweat is dripping down me in rivulets and the air smothers me like an electric blanket, and yet this is as cool as it gets. I feel uncomfortable in my skin, like the humidity has somehow sloughed it loose. I want to crawl out of it, leave this body, leave this life and all its incumbent crap behind. 

I long desperately for a cigarette, yearn for that first hit of nicotine in my blood, calming my nerves, occupying my idle hands that should be working, should be busy all the time, should be focusing on other people's problems. But I finished the pack over an hour ago, and there isn't another gas station for miles. In fact there isn't another _anything_ for miles, not even a tiny spec of life glimmering in the middle of the vast desert. We are all alone out here, truly in the middle of nowhere. 

I begin to wonder how good an idea this trip was after all. 

Twelve hours ago it had seemed a fantastic idea. A road trip. Let my hair down. Speed along lonely roads shrieking into the wind, all just for the Hell of it. It had been so long since I'd done anything so carefree, so plainly selfish, that I couldn't wait to set off, to drive without a destination, to speed away from responsibility and duty, to escape the ties that bind my life so securely. To say fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck them all. 

I had been drunk then. Drunk and stupid. 

And now I'm paying for it. Paying for my total lack of judgement with a body that aches for more alcohol – its long dormant addiction now awakened. Paying with the loss of a relationship with a man that I care deeply about and the ruination of a friendship with a man I might very possibly love. Or was our friendship ruined already? Spoilt because of my fear, my abject terror of letting somebody get too close, of dropping the barriers that surround my heart and actually needing somebody else for a change, instead of them just needing me. 

I try not to think about yesterday, but I can't exactly help it. I can't stop the memories slipping into my mind, can't stop my head pounding with the ache of the hangover. Can't turn away from the steely features of John Carter in the driving seat of the rental car, staring straight ahead at the road in front of us, not having spoken a word for the last twenty miles.

Perhaps he's regretting this too. 

Last night everything was fine. Well, when I say fine, I mean normal. I'd worked an average day at the hospital – been puked on, cursed at, bitten by a hyperactive five year old, had a beautiful young woman with flowing blonde curls (just the kind I've always admired, but would never admit to secretly wanting) come in with fatal injuries from a car crash. We pumped on her chest and spattered blood all over her flawless complexion, until her heart was just a squishy mess in my hands and Dr Benton calmly pronounced her dead. In other words it was just another sucky day in my generally crappy life, but at least I had control over it.

Then I got that phone call. _The _phone call, the one I've been dreading ever since Mom left Chicago, insisting that everything was okay and that she was better now. This was going to be the time she would make it in the world. Forget her thirty years of failing to take meds and careening from bouts of crushing depression to the giddy heights of mania. Forget the three failed suicide attempts and the arrests and the endless discussions with child and family services over whether she was fit to take care of her own children. Forget the times when I sat by her, helpless as she stared out into space, rocking mindlessly back and forth on her heels. Forget the day when I was eight and she left me and my brother playing on the sidewalk outside a bar, whilst she went inside and picked up men. Forget the entire history of her illness. She was better now and if I couldn't give her that second (thousandth) chance, if I couldn't trust her now…then I was the one with the problem, not her. 

I had my doubts when Mom left, disappeared with a cheery smile to stay with a friend whose name I couldn't even remember. I always had that feeling in the pit of my stomach that it wasn't the end, that conclusions didn't come about that easily, answers that didn't exist couldn't be simply found. I gained no pleasure in being proved right. 

The calm authoritative voice on the other end asked for Mrs Lockhart. I ignored the 'Mrs', a title I hated during my marriage and now have no desire to use following my divorce, and said, yes, speaking. The voice went on to tell me about my mother. To inform me it was very sorry for my loss, that they'd tried everything they could, worked on her for a long time, used all the appropriate drugs and medical recourses. She just couldn't be saved. 

_Couldn't be saved. _They got that right, anyway. 

I thanked whoever it was and hung up, totally composed, emotionless. I wasn't thinking about Maggie (about my Mom who let us paint the walls and giggled like a schoolgirl and told me stories of wild adventures I was never entirely sure she just imagined…). Instead I wondered how many times I'd been the one bearing the bad news. How I'd doled out the meaningless lines of condolences, thrown in a few technical terms to impress, to make them think we accomplished more than we had, that it was God who took away their mother (or father or child or sibling or spouse), not just a cruel twist of fate or the limits of modern medicine. Then I'd hung up the phone and walked away, forgotten about the other person's pain and just gotten on with my life, because that's the only possible way I could have coped. 

I couldn't walk away from this, though. My mother killed herself. Not in the traditional suicidal way, though. She got drunk then decided to go swimming. The twenty-year-old college students she was with pulled her out of the water when they realised she'd been under during a dive too long. They performed mouth-to-mouth and called 911, but it was too late. Always too late. 

Luka had gaped at me with a concerned face and eyes that had seen too much death already. "What is it?" He asked, but I think he already knew. 

"It's my fault," I had muttered, feeling intensely the truth of the words, as I still do now. I had the chance to help, but I threw it away. I knew this was going to happen, I knew it in my bones and in my heart and yet I still let her walk away from me. She was my responsibility, but I was tired of looking after her, so I gave up. I killed her as surely as if I held her head under the water myself, or held the bottle of vodka to her lips and forced her to drink. My fault.

"No, no, it's not," Luka insisted. "There was nothing you could have done."

I turned on him, three decades of pain colouring my voice. "I could have wanted her. She was my mother and I wished she wasn't."

"Abby…" he reached out for me and I pulled away. 

"No! Don't touch me. I don't want you here right now, I want to be alone."

"It's going to be okay," he insisted. "Everything's going to be all right."

"How can you say that?" I yelled, my tightly held control slipping away from me. I was beginning to sound like her_ – please God, I don't want to turn into her. Spare me that indignity at least. _"How can you say it's okay when my mother just died?"

"I understand," he fixed me with an intense stare, the stare that drew me to the relationship in the first place, the one that radiates pain and distance. It screams 'keep away from me' and I liked that, I liked the idea of someone I couldn't connect with completely, someone to be around but not _with_, someone whose wounds were even deeper than mine. "I know how you feel right now. It hurts like you want to die, but that passes, it never totally goes away, but it gets better then you can move on."

"No, you don't understand," I snapped back at him. "When I heard she was dead – you know what the first thing I felt was? Relief. I was glad it was over. Glad she wouldn't be around to put me through Hell anymore."

Luka said nothing, just kept staring and staring, eyes black as coal, the emotions behind them unfathomable. 

"Please will you leave," I begged in a whisper and he did. 

It didn't take me long to head out to the nearest bar, to surrender all resistance to the ever-present urge to drown every single one of my sorrows. Five scotches on rocks later, I was feeling a little better. In fact I was beyond better, I was (and I am well aware of the irony here) bordering on manic. A sudden urge to do something crazy, to enjoy my newfound freedom, overwhelmed me and I picked up the payphone in the bar. I dialled Carter's number, something I hadn't done for weeks, not since he told be he didn't want to be my friend anymore, that it wasn't fair on him. I had deliberately missed his meaning then, but that night in the bar it became much clearer.

"John," I greeted him in a husky voice tinged with giggles. "I don't think we should be friends any longer either."

"Abby?" He replied with some confusion. "Is that you?"

"Yup. Who else would it be?"

"Where are you?" He asked and I remember thinking that it meant he cared. Wherever I was, he wanted to find me there, only I wasn't sure whether he could.

"I'm in a bar, downtown."

"You're in a bar? What the Hell are you doing? You're an alcoholic!"

"Come have a drink with me, John," I slurred and he muttered some extra curses then insisted he was coming to pick me up.

True to his word he was there twenty minutes later, during which time I had consumed three more drinks and was feeling the buzz very nicely, thank you very much. When he arrived I grabbed his hand and tried to make him drink, to get him to unwind. He in turn tried to drag me out of there. He wanted to take me home, put me in the shower, a concept I found absolutely hilarious, until a better idea struck me. 

"I want to go on a trip."

"A trip?" He echoed doubtfully. 

"Yep. I want to leave everything behind and forget about it. I never did that before, I always stuck things out, knuckled down and played good little Abby. I want to be bad for once. I want to not give a shit…"

"And if I take you away, you promise not to have another drink?" He interrupted.

I contemplated the deal for a while. I would just be swapping one form of escapism for another. "I promise."

So, we went home and packed a bag and he took me to the airport. Two plane tickets appeared like magic and suddenly Chicago was a mass of pretty little lights far down below me and the alcohol was beginning to wear off. 

I slumped back in my seat, tears beginning to prick at my eyes as reality, no longer veiled by drugs or shock, began to sink in. She was dead. My mother is dead.

John touched my hand tentatively, like he's almost afraid to. "What happened, Abby?" He asked softly. "What made you do this?"

I collapsed over into his lap, crumpling like a paper doll. "It's over," I gasped through my sobs. "She finally did it."

"Maggie," He muttered, knowing exactly what I meant. We are so similar really, we both bottle things up inside, pretend they don't exist until we can deal with them no longer and we self-destruct. I couldn't have broken down like this in front of Luka, he wouldn't have understood with his stoic European ways and his quiet pain. He doesn't get how in some people hurt explodes suddenly and annihilates everything in its wake. 

"I'm sorry," John added. "I'm sorry." And then he wrapped his arms around my shaking form, staying like that until the seat belt signs lit up again and I had to sit up with red, puffy eyes, looking like absolute Hell while the plane landed in Arizona. 

Outside the airport he asked me what I wanted to do next. I said head to the nearest bar, so he decided for me. We hired a car and started driving and we haven't stopped since. 

~~~

John pulls over to the edge of the road, bringing the car to an abrupt halt under the burning midday sun. We sit in silence for a while, suddenly out of things to say to one another.

"Where to now?" He finally asks.

"I thought we were just following the road."

"Ah, but where does it lead?"

I sigh heavily, longing once again for a cigarette or a drink. "I'm not sure we'll ever know answer to that – or if I even want to."

"I know I don't," John returns with a wry smile. The silence stretches long again, but this time it doesn't seem to bother me as much.

"Are you really going to leave County?" I ask, trying to sound disinterested and failing.

"I don't know," John shrugs. "Sometimes you just have to give up and move on."

"And sometimes you have to work at things, dig your heels in and put in the effort," I return with unexpected vehemence. 

"Give me one reason why I should stay," he turns and looks me straight in the face. 

I hesitate for an instant, before giving in to my reckless streak. "Because I want you to."

"So you can have a friend to sort out problems between you and Luka?" He enquires with no small amount of bitterness.

I shake my head. "No, so I can have someone to call at midnight from a bar because my life is falling apart and I know he'll be there to stop me from ruining things completely. So we can drive all night then get stuck in awkward morning after phase."

"Morning after phase?" He laughs. "Don't we have to sleep together to get that?"

"Apparently not."

"Then I think I'm missing out on the best part of the deal here," he jokes. 

"Just drive," I mutter, trying to suppress my amusement. 

"But we haven't decided where we're going yet."

"Does it really matter?"

He starts the engine. "No, I don't suppose it does."

THE END

Okay, so how bizarre was that? Very, I know. But forgive me (since it's 1:30am), and please send feedback if only never to tell me to write for the ER genre ever again. 


	2. Chapter Two

Notes ~ I wasn't going to write a sequel to this (since it was basically a late night whim), but I got so many requests that I

_Notes ~ _I wasn't going to write a sequel to this, since it didn't really begin as a coherent idea, more of a 'late night writing whatever strangeness came into my head' session. But so many people asked me to continue, I thought I'd be nice and oblige. What can I say? I'm a feedback whore. 

Miles to Nowhere – Part Two

The small town comes gradually into view, revealing itself to be nothing more than a group of dusty houses, a motel and a gas station. John fills up the car, while I hurry inside for a packet of cigarettes. As I stand at the counter to pay my eyes are drawn to the array of liquor lined up behind the shop clerk. I feel that itch in my veins that makes me long for the rush of alcohol in my system, makes me ache for the burn on my tongue and the warmth in my belly. It would be so easy right now, just to ask for that half-bottle of whiskey. To feel the hard glass in my hand then unscrew the cap and smell the sharp, heady scent, to disappear into the bathroom and take a long gulp, letting the liquid hit the back of my throat and work its way into my blood, gradually diluting my pain…

I hurriedly hand over the money, walking out without the change, before the last of my resolve is shattered. Then I chain smoke three cigarettes in quick succession, brutally crushing the butts underneath my heel when they are finished. 

I catch a weather-beaten local watching me brazenly, staring at the rich strangers with the flash car and the fancy ways. I bet he wonders what we're doing here, deep in the vast and empty desert. Well, I wonder too.

"Excuse me," I call over to him. 

He simply raises an eyebrow and turns away. 

"Hey!" I persist, demanding his attention. "Where's the nearest pay phone?"

He runs his eyes lazily down my dishevelled figure, raping me with his gaze. "That'll be down in the General Store, little lady."

"Well, where's the general store?" I ask impatiently.

He nods in the direction of the gas station. "You're lookin' at it. Ask Bud inside."

Turning exasperatedly away, I head back inside the shop and address the clerk, trying my best not to look at the shiny bottles as I do so. "Could I use your phone, please?"

"You could borrow my cell," John offers, and I flash him a guilty glace. 

"I have to call Luka."

"Oh," he replies and walks away.

I am ushered into a back room, and pointed in the direction of the phone, the clerk standing over me as I prepare to dial. "Uh, this is a private call," I hint for him to leave. 

I punch in the familiar number, holding my breath as I hear ringing on the other end. What am I going to say to him? 

"Hello," Luka answers.

I pause before speaking, my voice caught in my throat. "Hello," he repeats. "Is anybody there?"

"Luka?" I blurt out suddenly. "It's Abby."

"Abby? I've been worried sick about you. I tried calling your apartment, the hospital, everywhere… Where are you?"

I take a deep breath before answering. "Somewhere in the middle of Arizona."

"Arizona? Why?"

"It was the first flight we could get out of O'Hare."

"We?" He asks, the first hint of suspicion and hostility leaking into his voice.

"John's here with me."

"Carter?" He fairly yells. "You're in Arizona with Carter."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," I reply in an apologetic tone.

"And now, now what does it seem like?"

The clerk appears hovering at the door once more. "Listen," I tell Luka. "I have to go, I'll talk to you when we get back, okay?"

I replace the receiver quickly and hand the guy a five-dollar bill, rushing out of the store before I can stop myself from buying that six pack of beer I glimpse in the corner of my eye, and guzzling the cool liquid straight down. God, a cold beer would be so good right now, so refreshing, and it would just give me that extra kick to get through the next few hours…

I shake my head, trying to dispel the urge.

"What did Luka say?" John asks, feigning disinterest.

I shrug. "Not much."

"So," he says tightly. "Do you want to drive?"

I automatically catch the keys he tossed in my direction. "What are we even doing here, John?"

"I don't know," he replies. "You were the one who wanted to come."

"I was drunk at the time," I protest. "I'm not exactly at my most rational when drunk. If I'd said I wanted to pony trek in the Himalayas, would you have taken me?"

"Come on," he emits a short bitter laugh. "This is hardly Nepal. You said you wanted to get away for a couple of days, so now we're away."

"Away in the middle of nowhere," I bite back. "Do you even know where the Hell we are?"

"Sure I do," he replies. "We're in Grantsville – " he points at the town's 'Welcome' sign – "Grantsville, Arizona."

"Why thank you for making that exceptionally complex deduction," I say sarcastically. "And where, pray tell, is Grantsville, in relation to anywhere resembling civilisation, that is?"

He digs in the glove compartment of the rental in search of a map, finally locating one and pouring over it. Finally he stands up straight again and points in the direction we were travelling. "The Nevada Stateline is about 100 miles west on this road, then it's a little further on to Vegas," he turns around. "Or we could head back the way we came to Phoenix. We can catch a flight back to Chicago from either city – since I'm assuming that's what you want to do." 

I nod curtly. "So, which way? Onwards or back from whence we came?"

He thinks for a minute. "We should carry on – after all, there's no going back is there?"

"No," I agree in a quiet voice. "There never is."

~~~

The rest of the trip is spent in a semi-awkward silence. I turn the radio on and we listen intermittently to country music, letting the sad lyrics and the slow, sliding melodies provide a depressing soundtrack to our trip. We swap over the driving a couple of times, both of us tired now, our bones aching with fatigue and need for our equivalent pick-me-ups. I saw it in John's eyes when we stopped for a bathroom break. He had the haunted look of an addict. I touched his arm in private understanding and the connection between us flared once more, before being stifled by the hot, oppressive atmosphere of the car. 

While John drove I tried to sleep, managing short catnaps filled with disturbing dreams of Luka's dark eyes and my mother's manic laughter. _He's a good man_, Maggie had said. _And so is your friend John. _She was right. Right about both of them, so why do I keep hurting them so much? Or can I just not help it? Do I destroy everyone and everything I touch – my legacy from her? 

We reach Las Vegas suddenly, the city looming straight out of the desert like some bizarre mirage of concrete, steal and neon lights. The temperature seems to soar even higher, what few breezes there are halted in the shelter of the tall buildings, the pollution hovering like a blanket over the colourful metropolis. 

John turns the rental car in at the airport and I disappear into the bathroom to change clothes and clean myself up a little. I wash away the road dust in the small sink, turning the white tile a dirty red with sand, and almost regret this trip ending. Because when I go back to Chicago it will be real, not just some distant nightmare, My mother will be dead and my boyfriend won't know me and my best friend will hate me for stringing him along like I have. 

I want to turn and go back on the road, to do it properly this time, to make the escape I longed for in the first place. But I know it won't work, for exactly the same reasons this trip has been a disaster. We can't leave our troubles behind – they don't stay neatly filed away in places or people, they live in a tangled mess in our heads and follow us wherever we go. 

Eventually, I drag myself away from my reflection in the mirror, unable to stare any longer at the face I now don't recognise as my own. I see more and more of _her _in me every day. I have her hair, her cheekbones, her hollow eyes ringed with dark circles. The older I get, the more changes that occur inside me too, I become more and more screwed up – just like Mom. I seem to be accumulating problems. A string of failed relationships. An aborted baby. Alcoholism. Getting thrown out of medical school. My greatest fears are being realised and my tenuous control over my life is gradually slipping away. The worst thing is, I don't know whether it's _her _doing this to me (the inevitable influence of biology and learned behaviour slowly distorting my mind), or whether I'm doing it to myself. Maybe in trying so hard not to be her, I forgot to concentrate on the things that are more important. I was so busy with my fears and my paranoia that I messed up all on my own.

I am consciously aware of the two warring sides of my personality. There's the sensible Abby, who puts up walls to protect her heart, who killed her baby because she was afraid of being a bad mother, who is content to be a nurse because it's safe and familiar and carries no risk of dashed hopes. She's the one who wants to be with Luka, because he's safe and reliable and he cares for her. She's afraid of showing her emotions, of falling in love, because then she'll have no power over her feelings or her actions. It's not the love she fears – that she craves – it's the falling. She is petrified of loosing her footing and flying through the air, not knowing where she might land. 

Then there's the other Abby. The volatile, passionate Abby. The one who finds it in herself to laugh and cry and get drunk out of her mind. The one who suggests road trips, or lets down other people's tyres. The one who acts totally on impulse and has beautiful hopes and dreams for the rest of her life. The one who still believes it's possible to be happy. She gets up and yells in the middle of courtrooms, because she loves someone so deeply she will do anything to try and help them. She gets angry and sad and carefree and all the rest of the roller coaster of emotions. She self-destructs in bars and she hurts everybody around her, but she also takes leaps of faith and lives her life to the full.

The crazy part of me wants to turn to Carter now and tell him to get back on the road. She wants to let go completely and travel wherever the mood takes us. She wants to risk my heart by falling for him and kissing him and playing the casinos of Las Vegas, because my luck's been that bad so far, it has to change sometime, right? 

But sensible Abby wins over yet again. She knows I have to head back to Chicago to organise my Mom's funeral and deal with Luka and decide whether or not I'm going to carry on in the medical programme next semester. And she's afraid. Afraid that dropping everything and running across the country with a man (who isn't even the one I'm supposed to be dating) means I'm crazy. She's afraid it's just the first step in a downward spiral, where I become more and more like Maggie every day. She sees too many parallels with the aborted trips to Disneyland and the depressed episodes spent locked up in motel rooms. Best to stop it now, to return to my normal _(safe)_ life and pretend like nothing happened. 

I leave the bathroom decisively, my uncertainty firmly quashed. I am making the right decision, there is no other one to be made, we have to go back. 

~~~

I meet John outside the bathroom, pacing back and forth impatiently waiting for me.

"So, did you see about getting plane tickets?" I ask.

He turns to look at me, his expression half-guilty, half-reluctant. "I asked at all the desks," he explains. "And the first flight to Chicago I could get is at ten a.m. tomorrow."

"Not until tomorrow morning?" I exclaim, suddenly panicking. This can't be happening, I had my mind all made up, we were going to go back and everything would be fine. Now, though, I feel lost again, unable to cope with circumstances beyond my control. "Did you go through every airline? There can't possibly be _nothing_ available? What about in first class? Or transfers – we could fly somewhere else first then go on to Chicago."

"And the journey would take twice as long and cost twice as much," John reminds me. "What's the big deal, anyway? We could spend the night in a motel here, get some sleep, then go back tomorrow. Eighteen more hours isn't going to change anything."

I glance over at Carter standing next to me, his eyes unwaveringly following my every movement, his hands stuffed protectively into his pockets, and I think that eighteen hours could change a lot – too much in fact. 

"I'm not sure…" I waver.

"It's just one night, Abby."

The last of my resistance crumbles, heading the way of the rest of my best-laid plans. "All right, okay. I can handle it," I say as much to persuade myself as him. 

"Good," he nods. "I saw a motel outside the airport, we can stay there."

"Fine," I reply, walking out with him. We are just passing through the double-doors of the main exit, mingling with the rest of the tourists and business people and gamblers, when a sudden thought occurs to me, hitting me sharply in the stomach. "Are you sure they were no flights left? You weren't just saying that to make me stay?"

John spins around on me, caught midway between amusement and offence, his mouth laughing but his eyes hurt. "What? You really think I'd do that?"

I realise my mistake at once, the certainty of a second ago now dismissed as impossible, a figment of my paranoid imagination. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. In fact, I'm sorry for all of this. For dragging you into this, for acting like a total bitch."

John wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me slightly into his body. "I'm sorry too – about Maggie. About your Mom."

I say nothing in response, afraid that any further conversation will unlock the floodgate to all the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. Instead I just lean my head against him and carry on walking. The familiar AA mantra echoes in my head – one step at a time. 

_To be continued? What do you think? Is it still worth the effort? _


	3. Chapter Three

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Three

Notes ~ For anyone who's interested, my friend Cath wrote a companion piece to this from Carter's POV entitled 'The Road Less Travelled'. Reading it isn't necessary to the story, but it does fill in a few gaps I am too lazy to explain J. Also in this chapter any facts I didn't know, e.g. Maggie's birthday, the rules of roulette, I just made up, so if they're complete rubbish then that's why. 

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Three 

The sheets on the bed of the motel room smell fresh and clean, scented lightly with fabric conditioner and it makes me remember the pile of laundry left unwashed in my apartment. That's just another thing to add to my 'to do' list along with calling funeral directors and informing various relatives. A shocking thought occurs to me. Did anyone ever call my brother? Is he still going about his daily life in ignorance, thinking Mom's okay, thinking that everything is fine because the sun still rises and the world still turns, even if she is no longer in it. 

I want to call now, to have somebody to share the guilt and the grief with, but I can't remember his number and I don't have my address book with me. How terrible is that? I don't even know how to contact my own brother in order to break the news of our mother's death. We hardly ever speak any more – Mom was our only tangible connection. And now that she's gone…

The idea is only just beginning to register in my head. Mom dead. A part of me is sure it can't be true – this is just another painful episode in the long drawn out serial of her illness. She convinces us all she's gone, then she'll pop back in the height of one of her manic periods, wanting to get married to some twenty-five year old she only just met last week. And the nightmare spiral will begin again. I'll destroy my life trying to help and it won't make any difference. Then I'll give up, pronounce her a lost cause and she'll disappear for a while and I struggle with my guilt until the next time. 

I always imagined this cycle would go on forever. The mania followed by the depression, followed by the mania, followed by a brief period of lucidity where I actually realise I like this woman who is my mother – she's bright and bubbly and forthright and supportive and everything a Mom should be – then it all goes to Hell again. But everything's ended now, a sharp break in the sequence, the pattern forever destroyed. She died.

_She died! The bitch died on me! As if she hasn't put me through enough already, she has to go and do this!_

__Mom's dead.

The tears come now, acrid bitter sobs that choke in the back of my throat and sting my eyes. My shoulders shake violently and my stomach aches with the effort of holding in screams. I want to shriek up at the sky, that it's not fair, that I should have been given the chance to help, that I still need her. I still need my Mom. 

A sharp knock echoes from the direction of the door, but I just ignore it, burrowing my head deeper into the nest of pillows and gulping back tiny whimpers that threaten to stretch out into long hiccupping wails. I shouldn't be crying like this. It's weak and I'm supposed to be strong, aren't I? I was the one who cared for her, the one who rocked her when she wept, not the other way around. I was always the adult in our relationship and she the wild teenager, whose freedom and passion I always kind of envied in my own hyper-controlled way. 

I remember my ex-husband – or as I like to think of him, the bastard who helped ruin my life – once criticised me for being too emotionless. He said _why can't you be more like your Mom? _

"You want me to be mentally unhinged, is that it?" I yelled back sarcastically.

"Well, anything's better than the anally retentive ice queen you are now!" He replied.

I recoiled as if I'd been slapped, because I knew his words were true. I worked everyday caring for sick people, they got all my good nature and compassion and when I went home at night I had none left. I'd pushed him further and further away from me, until our marriage was over long before divorce proceedings were ever started. It ended up a cold empty shell and I was afraid of following it. 

John calls out my name from the other side of the door, but I ignore him. That's the kind of heartless bitch I am. When Mom first showed up in Chicago, I disowned her. I told everyone I knew that I'd never seen her before in my life. How must she have felt to know her own daughter – the person she carried in her womb for nine months, and gave birth to, and cradled against her breast singing lullabies – was too embarrassed of her to even acknowledge the fact they were related? Would I have done that, would I have rejected her then tried to ship her back to my brother's if I'd known she only had a couple of months left to live? Would I still have thought her presence a nuisance if I had known it wouldn't always be there? Sometimes you never know what's important to you until you lose it. 

The door opens quietly and footsteps approach across the room. "Abby?" John reaches out to tentatively stroke my back, like he wants to touch me but doesn't dare. "Hey, it's okay," he says lightly. "I'm here."

My breathing evens out, the hitching sobs lessening somewhat. He's here now, sure, and it helps, but what about tomorrow, what about when we head back to Chicago? Will he just disappear like he has done in the past few weeks? I had gotten so used to his friendship there as my anchor, something to always fall back on, that when he took it away I felt lost. There are certain things I can't talk about Luka – like how the first thing I think of in the morning isn't him, or work, or any of my family members. When I wake up the first thing I am aware of is the need for alcohol – it screams in my blood and pounds a rhythm in my head. _Drink, drink, drink, drink. _It hovers on the edge of my conscious all day long and Luka wouldn't understand that. He's from a different world, a different culture, his entire personality a mystery to me. 

John, though, I get. And he gets me. We have a sort of easy rapport that I have come to miss. Our friendship was never about the big things – although we have many of those in common too, like our mutual addictions – but focused more on the little details. We share a sense of humour, sometimes indulging in long, complex jokes that nobody else would find funny even if the premise were explained to them. We talk about the minor inconveniences in life (something I never felt able to with Luka – because the loss of his entire family totally eclipses any other trivial problems I might have), moaning and griping about work and money troubles and everything unimportant just to mask the deeper troubles in our hearts. 

"Did you wanna go out somewhere?" John asks softly, demonstrating this principle exactly. 

"Where?" I mutter through the pillows, drawn into his blatant 'cheer-up Abby' scheme, even despite my determination to be miserable.

"We could play a few slot machines, waste all our money on the roulette wheel. Maybe even take in a show," he suggests. "After all we are in Vegas." I still don't answer, so he persists, prodding me gently. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

I should be angry with him for even proposing the idea – my mother just died and he wants us to go out gambling. But I know that this isn't really his agenda. This is just his way of trying to relate to me, his way of dealing with my emotional distress. Neither of us are touchy-feely, spill-your-heart-out-to a-grief-counsellor people, so we have to find other ways of coping. In the past for me that has meant alcohol, and if I were in Chicago then I would throw myself into my work as a distraction. But right now I'm in Vegas, so the distraction is going to have to tailor itself to that situation somehow. As the saying goes, when in Rome…

I raise my head fractionally off the bed, twisting to look at him. "Fun?"

He shrugs. "Well, maybe not _fun_, but it beats staying in and staring at four walls all evening."

"Actually, I was thinking about staring at the floor too – just for a change of scenery."

"Right, that's it," he grabs hold of my arm, pulling me up into a sitting position. "You're coming out for a night on the town whether you like it or not."

"Oh, really," I raise my eyebrows sceptically at him. "And you're going to make me are you?"

He dives towards my waist, scooping me up and over his shoulder before I have a chance to realise what's going on and protest. "Hey!" I struggle to get away, kicking my legs and waving my fists. "Let me down!"

"Nope," he refuses my request, only tightening his grip and carrying me towards the door. As we pass out of the room, I grab hold of the doorframe, finally acquiescing. 

"Okay, okay, I'll come. But only if you let me shower first."

He dumps me back on the bed, grinning widely in victory. "Meet you downstairs in twenty minutes?"

"Whatever," I shoot him my best withering glare.

"Phew," he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room, massaging the base of his back with his thumbs. "I'm glad I didn't have to carry you all the way down to the lobby – you're heavier than you look."

"Bastard," I yell after him, with nowhere near as much venom as he deserves. 

~~~

"How's your burger?" John nods towards the remains of take-out meal resting in its polystyrene container in my lap. 

"Great thanks," I reply sarcastically. "You really know how to treat a girl."

"Well," he deadpans back, "I knew if there was anyone who'd appreciate my sophisticated charm, it would be you."

I take the last bite of my food, now cooled in the surprisingly chilly night air. Although the place is still warmer than Chicago the sinking of the sun caused the temperature to dip rapidly to a level actually approaching pleasant. Dumping my empty container in the bin, I turn back to John. "So, when does this excitement-packed evening you promised me begin?"

"Right now," he replies. "If you'll just step this way Madam."

He discards the rest of his meal and stands up off the park bench we had sat on to watch the tourists, the gaudy neon lights and the general spectacle that is Las Vegas. Then he completes a tiny mock bow and holds out his hand to help me up.

I roll my eyes but accept the hand, anyway. "Certainly sir."

He leads me in the direction of the nearest casino and I stay holding his hand for a while, because it just feels so natural and so right. But then I remember we're not actually a couple and I'm supposed to be with somebody else, so I let go and inch slightly away, trying to think of a covering conversation.

"So, have you ever been to Vegas before?"

"Once," John admits. "On some family function. We stayed in the best hotel and bet ridiculous sums of money, just so our winnings could be donated to charity. It was all very civilised and mundane, and I spent the entire time wanting to escape and explore on my own. What about you?"

I wait a few beats before answering, gazing around me at the bright colours and the carnival atmosphere. I don't belong here – but then nobody does really, it's a city of tourists and performers, with gambling, prostitution and crime just given a shiny gloss coating. "I vacationed here with my ex once – a little while after we were married – he lost half our savings playing blackjack, came on to every croupier in sight and I spent the entire weekend on a drinking binge."

An awkward silence echoes in the wake of my bitter recollection, until eventually John takes a deep breath and speaks. "So, things can only get better, right?"

A short laugh spills from my lips. "Pretty much."

The casino we enter is packed and noisy, filled with lots of people throwing away their money and enjoying every second of it. John heads straight to the entrance kiosk and hands over his credit cards, asking for five thousand dollars worth of chips. My mouth drops open. 

"You don't intend betting all of that do you?"

He shrugs. "Why not? It's only interesting when the stakes are high. The only risks taking are big ones." 

This reckless behaviour appals the control-freak inside of me. "But what if you mess up. What if you lose it all?"

He turns and looks at me for a long time, a strange expression in his eyes. "That's just a chance I have to take."

He turns back to accept his chips, then leads me over to the nearest roulette table, handing me a pile of hundred dollar chips. "Put them on any number you like."

I shake my head. "Oh no, buddy. You can be responsible for losing your own money."

"Just put them on a number," he insists. "I don't care."

The croupier calls for all bets to be places and with one last uncertain glance at John I hurriedly place the chips on the first number that catches my eye – black 27. The wheel spins and I watch it intently, amazed at how blasé John can be about betting the equivalent of three months' rent for my apartment. Well, I suppose that's what happens when you grow up a millionaire. The spinning slows and the ball rattles and flicks itself into one of the numbered gaps. As the blurring figures gradually come into focus I can hardly believe my eyes.

"Black 27," the croupier calls out and pushes a small mountain of chips in our direction. 

John grins widely. "There, I knew you could do it."

"Dumb luck," I insist as he presses more chips into my hand. "That's all it was."

"Nope," he denies the idea firmly. "You have a gift for this. Pick another number."

I drop the chips on red 14, utterly unconvinced that we could ever win again. And yet, when the wheel spins I watch it intently, a little spark of irrational hope building in the pit of my stomach. Willing the ball into the correct space, I cry out in surprise when it actually lands there. 

"Oh my God! We won!"

"I knew we would," John insists. 

"Play again sir?" The croupier asks after doling out our second set of winnings. 

John nods, gesturing towards the entire pile of chips. "Go on," he says to me. "You're on a streak now."

"Don't say that," I reply. "You'll jinx it." 

He smiles. "I don't think that's possible tonight."

After deliberating for only a second, I put all the chips on to red 18. The 18th of October was Mom's birthday, I remember. Only this year I completely forgot it – didn't even send her a card or anything, just another example of how bad a daughter I am. The ball starts to spin and I am mesmerised by it and the swirling numbers and colours. _Redblackredblackredblackredblack_ dancing before my eyes and merging into perfect set of spinning circles. The wheel slows and the patterns created wobble and fall abruptly out of place, the loud cries of excitement from around me fading to a distant hum as our entire group falls to an intensely focused hush.

"Red 18," the croupier calls out and my heart leaps into my throat.

"Yes!" I cry out throwing my arms around John's neck. He grabs me by the waist and twirls me around, while the others at the table clap and cheer. 

When he puts me down we are both smiling widely, our eyes locked with one another. "You see," John says softly. "I knew we'd make a good team."

I pull away, suddenly feeling awkward. Gathering up the huge pile of chips I mutter something about having stretched our luck too far already on the roulette wheel. John agrees and we move away, gradually working our way through the rest of the games in the casino. We never win so big again; in fact John loses several thousand dollars at the craps table, so we end up with a bucket of quarters (donated generously by myself) playing the slot machines. 

"So, has this been exciting enough for you?" John asks as the machine eats up more of his coins.

"The winning wasn't exactly half-bad," I concede.

"Better than staying locked up in your hotel room all night?"

"Yeah, okay," I roll my eyes at him. "I'm glad you dragged me out – is that what you wanted to hear?"

He nods, flashing me a grin. "Pretty much." 

We simultaneously reach into the bucket for another load of quarters, our hands brushing as we do so. I go to pull away, but he entwines his fingers with mine. "I missed you, Abby."

I swallow deeply, warmth spreading up my arm from where he touches it. "I missed you too."

I turn away to feed another coin into the slot, just getting the chance to pull down the machine's handle, before John lightly catches me by the chin, turning his face to mine and sliding our lips together softly. 

There is a flash of lights and a chime of bells as my slot machine goes crazy and spurts quarters out everywhere. I jump away from John guiltily.

"Hey, you won again," he comments.

"Yeah," I reply dryly. "It must be my lucky night."

_~ As long as you're still enjoying it then I'll continue… _


	4. Chapter Four

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Four

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Four 

I gaze distractedly out of the plane window as we begin our ascent out of Vegas. The city gets smaller and smaller below us, details fading gradually out of sight until it is nothing more than a grey blob in the middle of endless desert. I tighten my grip on the armrest, trying my best not to calculate the length of that drop, should our plane somehow breakdown and fall out of the sky. 

That's how my life feels like at the moment – like a crashing plane, spiralling towards earth and I'm just waiting for the impact to come. It hasn't yet, but it might just do soon. It's getting closer all the time. 

The stewardess comes around offering us drinks. I want to say yes to those little miniature bottles of spirits she has on the bottom of her trolley. Yes, a vodka and tonic would be great right now. Add a twist of lemon and it would just hit the spot, soothing my dry, dusty throat. But I know John would never let me have one – if it were just up to me then I probably would have relented a long time ago – so instead I ask for a coffee. Strong and black with plenty of sugar, not quite the kick-start I crave, but better than nothing. 

John asks for an orange juice and I remember that's what he tasted off last night when he kissed me – sharp and tangy, the sting remaining on my lips long afterwards. No matter how many times I scrubbed my teeth last night, or gargled with minty mouthwash, I could still taste him. And as I lay awake I could feel him too, his fingers lightly gripping my chin, his mouth pressed against him, his hot breath on my cheek. 

I tried to remember Luka's kisses, to recall how he touches me or the way it makes me feel inside, but I couldn't. And then I fell into a fitful sleep, never long enough for my dreams to me anymore than a swirling set of images, changing with every spin of a roulette wheel.

"What are you going to do with the money?" I turn to ask John.

He looks puzzled for a second. "What money?"

"Your roulette winnings – there must have been close to twenty-thousand dollars there."

He shrugs, looking totally unconcerned. "You can have it if you want."

I turn away again, offended. "I don't need your charity."

He responds with his own style of amused surprise. "It's not charity – you were the one placing the bets, you picked the right numbers, so you should have the winnings."

I shake my head. "But it wasn't my money to start with."

"So, you give me back my stake and then keep the rest," he argues. "You could use it to pay for next semester's tuition."

"I thought we'd been through this," I reply. "I'm not even sure of I'm going back to school next semester – and if I do I can pay for it myself."

"Then use it for something else," he persists. "Treat yourself – get a new car, take a vacation – you deserve it."

"I don't _want_ your money," I tell him with sudden, biting anger. "You can't _buy _me like you bought everything else in your life, John."

"Hey, that's not fair – and you know it," he raises his voice, attracting looks from the other passengers. 

I sigh loudly. "Well, life isn't fair – you just have to get used to it."

"I'm sorry if my offering you that money offended you," he says stiffly, trying to make peace between us. "I was just trying to do something nice."

"Oh great, hooray for you," I say impatiently, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

"What's the matter with you this morning?" John sounds a little hurt by my hostility, but somehow I can't find in myself to care.

"What's the matter with _me_?" I snap back. "Perhaps it's because my mother just died and every guy I care about seems to think if he gives me enough money I'll _sleep _with him."

"Abby…I'm sorry…" John falters. 

"Just save it," I mutter, turning back to look out the window. _15,000ft and falling…_

"No," he reaches over to touch my arm then changes his mind, pulling his hand back. "I'm sorry I kissed you last night. I was out of line."

"You're damn right you were," I reply, still keeping my back to him. 

"I guess it's just hard," he sucks in a deep breath. "Because…because I love you." He laughs a little, probably with nerves, because I for one am not finding this situation in anyway amusing. "I know I shouldn't and God knows, I try not to – but…" he trails off. "I'm just making things worse, aren't I? It's okay, I'll shut up now. You can forget I ever said anything."

I still can't look him, stricken as I am by his confession. His sincerity shines through his words and I cannot help but know he is telling the truth. Nobody has ever said something like that before – I never had a man just turn around and pronounce his love. Even when I was married my husband only said it upon supplication. It was an automatic response to my naïve 'I love yous'; something he always knew he was supposed to say, but didn't quite understand the meaning of. 

I want to twist around and kiss John for being so sweet and humble and still caring even after all the endless shit I have put him through, not just in these past few days. I want to see what he tastes like now. Maybe of the coffee we drank together in the airport lounge or those breath mints he was chewing as the plane waited on the runway. But I won't ever know, because I'm too afraid. It frightens me to think how deeply I might fall for him back. If we kiss now then I don't know what'll happen next, or what I'll tell Luka or anything. I'm just too scared to follow this road. 

~~~

We spend the rest of the flight in near silence and then after arriving in Chicago the only conversation between us is necessary and curt. John retrieves his car from the long-stay parking lot and drives me home, stopping briefly outside my apartment building with the engine still running. 

"I'll see you at work," I offer quietly as I climb out the vehicle. 

"Sure," he returns, his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. 

I am just about to walk away when I suddenly stop, my feet acting almost of their own accord as all at once I know – just know – that I can't leave things between us like this. Maybe I am far too messed up to ever tell him exactly what he wants to hear, but confused as my heart is I'm sure of one thing. "I won't forget," I lean in through the passenger door and tell him. "I won't forget what you said."

With that, I pull away, shutting the door and shuffling several steps back onto the pavement as I watch him drive away, his eyes haunting me in the rear-view mirror. 

I trudge slowly up the steps to my apartment, wanting nothing more than to collapse into a warm, soft bed and sink into a deep, dreamless oblivion.

But when I walk through the door, I am accosted immediately by Luka. A small part of me wishes I never called to inform him of my return, but guilt soon quashes that selfish desire and I just end up standing, lost and staring, desperately trying to think of something to say to him.

"Did you have a nice trip?" Luka asks eventually and between his accent and my exhaustion, I really can't tell whether he is being sarcastic or not. 

"It wasn't supposed to be nice," I reply vaguely.

"Why did you go then?" He asks reasonably.

"To get away."

"To get away with Carter."

I shrug. "I don't know, maybe."

"Did you sleep with him?" Luka comes straight out with the question in a growling, slightly hostile tone.

"No!" I protest loudly. "I did not sleep with Carter. Neither did I intend to sleep with Carter."

Luka fixes his gaze on me sceptically. "Why did you go with him then? Why is it always him you turn to?"

"I don't know…" I answer, thinking that I actually truly don't. "He understands…"

"And I don't?"

"You – you're different."

"Different to what?" Luka looks confused. "To Carter?"

I shake my head. "To me."

There is another long silence during which I feel like screaming. Why is it I have all this stuff going on inside my head that I can never let out? There's so much inside me to say and yet nothing than can be said. Is this what drives people crazy – being stuck alone with their thoughts? Is this what drove Mom crazy?

Eventually I have to speak, there's something I must know. "Do you love me?"

"What?" Luka seems utterly stunned, my question coming totally out of the blue for him.

"Well, do you?" I press him harder, not wanting to give him time to think because then he has a chance to create a lie, to convince his heart of something he doesn't actually feel. And I don't want that. From now on, I don't want any further pretence or awkwardness. I want everything to be clear-cut and open between us. There's not enough left of me for the truth to hurt, anyway.

"I – " Luka begins then stops. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing," I reply simply. "I just want to know, because you never said it. We've been together, what? Nine, ten months now, and we haven't said it yet."

"Do you want me to say it?"

"I want you to be honest with me."

He sighs. "Honestly…I don't know. I care about you very deeply. I want to love you – "

"But you can't," I interrupt feeling curiously numb inside. It doesn't bother me anywhere near as much as it should. Maybe because I knew – I always knew where Luka's heart lay. He buried it in Croatia with his dead wife and his two children, and that's okay, because that's how it should be. You don't just stop feeling a loss like that, you don't just forget it and move on. You don't jump into bed with the first American woman you meet and suddenly become happy again. He wasn't looking for love with me – just comfort – which was good for a while because that's what I wanted too. But now…now I'm not so sure. 

"I'm sorry Abby," he begins. "Maybe with a little more time…"

I reach over and touch his hand. "I don't want to take her place, Luka."

He shakes his head. "You wouldn't be."

"Maybe not, but that's what it feels like."

He drops his eyes to the floor, saying nothing.

"So," I manage a light conversational tone. "Should I call it, or do you want to?"

Luka looks up once more, a question in his eyes. "Call what?"

"The End – of us, I mean."

"We pretty much made a mess of things, huh?"

I smile slightly. "No, I don't think so. In fact, this is my first ever break up not comprising of shouting, screaming and flying china. So, we're actually doing pretty good really."

"Ah, but we haven't quite finished yet – there's still time to start smashing plates," he carries on my joke.

I look at him, stood there with his head bowed, his eyes old and sad and I almost change my mind. I nearly tell him I want to try again, then take him in my arms to focus on his pain instead of my own. But I know it will never work between us and I know this is the right thing. "I'm sorry, Luka," I say softly, my eyes filling with tears. 

He nods. "I'm sorry too."

We hug, holding one another for a very long time, the aura of bittersweet sorrow in the air almost palpable. When we finally pull apart he hooks his fingers under my chin, catching my gaze.

"You call me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will," I promise. 

"Good," he smiles. "Goodbye, Abby."

"Goodbye, Luka," I kiss him one last time on the lips before he turns and walks out of the apartment.

Trying to ignore the oppressive silence he leaves in his wake, I strip off my clothes, tumbling alone into bed for that sleep I so desperately wanted, but now see no chance of ever getting. 

To be continued… 

(P.S. Thanks for all the great feedback so far – oh, and keep it coming will you, please! *g*) 


	5. Chapter Five

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Five

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Five

_ _

The next few days drag interminably. They gave me the week off work – _"take it", Mark said, "you deserve it". _But I don't. Or maybe it's the other way around, maybe this is my punishment for never being there enough for Mom. Working would make me forget more easily, but home alone (really alone, because I pushed away the only people who really care about me) I cannot help but think of her. I remember her unconscious and slack-jawed as we rushed her into the ER. I remember forcing charcoal down her throat and hating her more in that moment than I had ever hated anyone in my entire life, because it wasn't enough to destroy herself, she had to make me watch too.

Everywhere I look I see her, hear echoes of her voice and I'm terrified it's making me insane. When do you know? When do you cross that line from grieving to depressed? When you stay in bed all day? All week? When you let the phone ring and ring and ring because you don't want to talk to anyone – you have nothing to say. When you burst into tears because you find in your closet a dress that she sewed you for a Christmas party then you never wore, as the night of the celebration she refused to take her meds, locked herself in the bathroom and got drunk out of her mind on your bourbon. 

I think a lot about John and Luka in this time. They take my mind off Mom for a while. But I only end up travelling further round in circles. I tie my feelings into knots. I'm not even sure if I should have broken up with Luka, and my feelings for John are even vaguer. Luka was safe. He couldn't fall in love with me, so I couldn't fall for him in return. We both locked up our hearts safe against each other and the arrangement suited us. Arms to hold me in the dark, a hand to grip when I walk down the street, a low voice to fill up the silence. It was good for a while, but when does 'good' cease to be enough, when do you start expecting more from your partner?

The first time I fell in love was in high school. Okay, maybe it wasn't love then, but it was the closest approximation to the state I could have gotten at that young age. And it terrified me – not at first, of course, at first it was great. His name was Jack and when he kissed me my heart thundered in my chest and I felt dizzy. For three months he was my entire world, even Mom and all her problems faded into the background. Twelve weeks of laughter and making out in the back of his Dad's truck and counting the minutes until we saw each other again. Then – inevitably – it all fell apart. 

I was lost, drowning. I couldn't believe someone I cared about so much could treat me so badly. It felt like the centre had dropped out of my existence. That was when I first started to drink. Nothing major (that didn't come until the disaster that was my marriage) but just the odd beer snuck here and there, a few sips of whiskey to take the edge of the pain off. One night I got really drunk and I followed _her _home – the girl Jack had replaced me with – I started yelling at her, screaming that she ruined my life and pummelling at Jack with my fists when he tried to protect her. They called me crazy and just walked away. 

That was what got to me, the idea that my feelings could be so strong they'd drive me over the edge. From that day on, I guarded my heart possessively, because I believed losing it to someone would lose that thread of meagre self-control I had over my actions too. People you love hurt you, I learnt that day. So, the fewer people you love, the less you'll end up being hurt, right? 

But I just don't know anymore. Because loneliness hurts too. It forms an empty chasm inside me and falls in salty tears from my eyes. And it's _cold_. So, cold that I lie curled up under thick blankets all day shivering, chilled to the bone. It makes me want to call Luka and tell him it was a mistake – we could be together if we tried, if we really wanted it – just so I can get back some of his slight warmth. It makes me want to call John to and bask in the heat that shines from his eyes every time he looks at me. But that's something I don't dare do, because I'm afraid of that fire. Afraid I'll get burnt.

I'm scared of so many things now, it amazes me how I ever get through the days anymore, how I find the strength to leave the house and carry on. Well, at the moment, I don't, but I know I will, in time, even though nothing will have changed. It's not places that scare me, however. It's not walking alone at night, or travelling on a crowded train, or catching some horrible disease from the dying patients I treat all the time. For some people those are the stuff of nightmares, but not for me. It's not the fear of a murderer's touch that keeps me awake and staring at the ceiling during the depths of the night, but the fear of a lover's. 

Getting close frightens me, because when you open up your heart to someone, then you leave it vulnerable to pain. If anyone taught me that it was my husband. For a brief, intense time, we shared everything. He knew all my secrets and my emotions, all my desires, hopes and regrets. And then things fell apart and he turned all my private thoughts against me. He knew I wanted more than anything to qualify as a doctor, to graduate from medical school and prove myself worthy of something for once. So, in his quest to hurt me, what did he do? Take that away from me, and then work to shatter my morale so I never dreamed of it again. After that, I swore I'd never let someone that close to me again.

But now I'm teetering on the edge, clinging on by my fingernails to rational thought. Part of me wants to let go, because I know that part of the falling is flying. It always starts that way – like a drinking binge – you soar high up in the air and for a while you're on top of the world. Everything is shining and new, the colours are brighter and all your goals more achievable. Then the earth comes crashing up towards you, and suddenly, without warning, you are hurtling down to the ground at a thousand miles per hour with no parachute. And you think it can't get any worse, that the sickening dread in the pit of your stomach, the nausea as your body rejects the alcohol you forced into it, is the end. Then the biggest shock of them all comes. Then you land. 

All the breath is knocked from you in the force of the impact and you lie, shocked and broken on the floor, amazed that something that felt so good could hurt you so badly. It's the mother of all hangovers, the pounding head and the vomiting and all your muscles aching and the room spinning around and around and around, until you're so dizzy you want to be sick again. It can be hours or it can be weeks before you recover fully, but when you eventually do, then the only overriding feeling is the urge to go out and do it all again. And again. And again. Until finally something snaps. 

Well, something snapped. I couldn't take the continual assault anymore, so I went into detox. I started attending AA meetings. I divorced my good for nothing husband, and I built a new life for myself. A safe life, one with no risks and everything in a neat, precise order. I worked as a nurse, dated a doctor, made a new best friend. I was in control. Then Mom came back and in true Maggie-patented style, everything went to Hell. 

~~~

I let my brother organise the funeral, since he was always the together one. He didn't get her crazy genes, just a calm steadiness that I always envied. So many years I wanted to be him, quietly unaffected by all of Mom's irrational behaviour. While me and Maggie screamed and shouted at one another, he would just stand by and watch, an impassive expression masking his features. Then he'd sigh and make peace between us, coaxing Mom into taking her meds and lecturing me on how I should have more patience with her. Somehow, I never found that patience, though, and that more than anything else is what makes me cry this afternoon. 

I lean on Luka's arm as they lower the casket into the grave. Somehow, we just reverted from a couple, back to being friends. It's the one positive aspect of the whole situation I can focus on; how nice it is to just have someone make no demands of you, to have him support you unquestioningly and ask for nothing in return. And it's something we achieved wordlessly. He just called to see how I was, then turned up at the funeral. _In case I needed a friend_. And I feel much better with him this way. 

Maybe we were never more than friends in the first place, or perhaps that's the way it should have been between us. But I can't regret the time we spent together, because of the platonic closeness it brings now. I am glad to have him in my life now and relieved by the conspicuous absence of the pressure to love him. 

John comes too, standing in the background, his eyes lacking much of their usual brightness. He stares at Luka then says a few polite words. 

"Thank you for coming," I call after him as he strides off through the cemetery, his shirt sticking to his back in the oppressive heat. It shouldn't be hot and sunny for a funeral, should it? Where's the storm clouds, the overcast grey, the rainy sky weeping the tears of angels'. I wanted Mom to have all that, but instead the day is beautiful and clear and the rest of the city goes about its business like nothing happened. 

My word ended and nothing happened. 

"Do you want to go after him?" Luka asks, as I stare numbly at the retreating figure of Carter. 

I shake my head. "I can't leave. I don't want to leave her."

_Beloved Mother_, the headstone reads. Was she? I wonder. I loved her, in my own dysfunctional, screwed up family way, but was she 'beloved'? Did we ever have the group hugs and the Hallmark mother-daughter moments that the term implies? I try to remember a single time she made me happy to have her there – a grown-up adult time, when despite her illness and my own problems, she was actually just Mom, the person who loved me for me. 

Tears spill down my cheeks as my mind draws a blank. I remember my high school graduation when she embarrassed me in front of the whole senior year by making a huge banner that read 'Way to Go, Abby' and waving it high above her head. I remember sitting hugging my knees on a hard hospital bench after the first suicide attempt. I remember her breezing into the ER in Chicago and telling everyone about her wonderful daughter the doctor and I remember disowning her afterwards.

Then it comes to me. One moment that cancels out all the rest, that makes her a wonderful person I am privileged to have known, let alone been related to. The day I first knew – any by this I mean, was absolutely certain – my marriage was over, I curled up in a ball and cried. Mom was taking her meds at this point and she prised the bottle of alcohol I hadn't yet dared to drink, out of my hands, then she wrapped her arms around me, rocking me like a baby. I needed my Mom that night and she was there and I loved her.

I fall down onto my knees next to the grave and whisper. "Goodbye Mom – I'll miss you." Tears cloud my eyes as I stand up once more, brushing the dirt from my knees, but perversely I actually feel better, probably because I'm beginning to let go of the past. All the pain and the problems and the regrets between Maggie and I don't matter anymore. All that's important is that we were mother and daughter. We had our good times and we had our bad times, like any other family. Maybe the bad outweighed the good and maybe we never had that perfect, rose-tinted relationship you see in all the movies, but what we had was ours and nobody can take that away from us. Right now, I don't remember Mom as being crazy, but as being special. She was unique and I'm so proud of her. 

A little shakily, I turn to Luka. "I think I'm just gonna go home now."

He nods. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," I shake my head. "It's okay, but I'd rather be on my own. Thanks for everything."

We hug briefly then I walk away from him, a lone figure making my way across the empty cemetery. It feels like I'm heading away from my old life and towards a new one. 

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter Six

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Six

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Six 

The ER is as crazy as I remember it. The noise hits me when I walk through the front doors – children screaming for their mothers, a nurse I don't recognise chasing after a wayward patient, a drunk singing tunelessly at the top of his voice, paramedics shouting details of the latest admittance. And I feel apart from it, like I'm watching the scene unfold on TV rather than actually living it. 

"Hey, Abby, good to have you back," Mark Green pats me on the shoulder as he breezes past, not waiting to hear an answer. 

"How are you feeling?" Kerry Weaver is next to approach me. I mumble something mundane in reply, then head in the direction of the lounge. I can only deal with one thing at a time and right now, all I'm concerned about is stowing my jacket and bag in my locker and starting work. The sooner I get into the routine of treating patients, the sooner I'll be able to forget the events of the past fortnight. My problems will pale into insignificance as I occupy my mind with the problems of others – denial: the best possible therapy. 

Not looking where I'm going I run straight into a patient. Our eyes meet and I see total incomprehension there, the glassy eyed stare of a drug addict. The emptiness bothers me; it's what I used to see in Mom's expression during her most depressed periods. All the spirit would drain out of her, until she was just a shell of the live, vibrant person she once was. Just a tired and broken body, with a vast empty void inside it.

I don't apologise, but instead duck my head down even lower, studying the floor, and hurry around past the junkie. _I used to look like that_, I think. When I was drunk, I would be that person with the blank eyes and the vacant stare. _Did John?_ I wonder. When he had just scored a hit did it make him less of the person he is? Did his eyes film over and the connection to his personality snap? The only answer I can come up with is 'no'. I only ever remember John's gaze being warm or filled with humour. Sometimes I have seen him hurting and angry, but never lost in despair like that junkie in the corridor. Like Mom.

"Hey, what's the matter with her?" Malucci asks loudly as I brush past him without saying hello.

"Her mother just died – didn't you hear?" Cleo Finch informs him in that low breathy voice of hers.

As I push open the lounge door I just hear Malucci's insensitive reply. "What? The crazy one? That's a shame – she was hot too…"

Tears sting my eyes as I shut out the bustle of the ER, taking sanctuary in the doctor's lounge. I've been here less than two minutes and already I'm crying. Maybe coming back today wasn't all that good an idea, after all. I try to mentally pull myself together, drawing on all the endless years of practice. I've spent most of my adult life feeling like a wreck inside, but only a small fraction of it actually acting like one. That's the thin thread that separates me from Mom, I suppose. I have control over my behaviour, so that even if my feelings run away from me I can maintain some kind of command over the mask I show to the world. Sometimes that mask slips, though, like now when I look up straight at Carter.

My first instinct is to turn around and escape his achingly tender, concerned gaze. But to do so would be to launch myself back into that busy ER, a place with perhaps even more stressors. So, instead I just stare at him, my cheeks stinging almost as if they have just been slapped, my voice caught in my throat. 

"Abby," John greets me in a serious tone. "You all right?"

I struggle to pull the last shattered threads of myself (or at least the person I'd like to be myself) together. "Do I look all right?" I snap back at him, allowing anger out in place of loneliness and despair.

"No," he answers quietly. 

Something inside me seems to deflate suddenly and I lose all enthusiasm for the argument I was mentally building up to a second ago. Instead I just walk past Carter to my locker, opening the door and shoving my bag inside.

I feel him sidle up beside me. "How's Luka?" He asks softly. 

I spin around on him, feeling his eyes burn into me. "Are you trying to make this more difficult than it is already?"

He backs away, stung. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. It's none of my business."

"You're right," I shrug out of my jacket. "It is none of you business. And coming back to work with everyone talking about be behind my back is hard enough already without you dragging up my break-up within two minutes of me walking through the door." I slam the locker shut, punctuating my outburst.

John just stares at me. "Break-up?"

"Yeah, you know, it's when two people decide to end their relationship. Perhaps you've heard of it?" I put up my protective walls of sarcasm once more. 

"I'm sorry Abby," he says sounding genuine. "I didn't realise."

"You didn't…?" I begin confused. "Luka didn't say anything?"

John shakes his head. "You two looked pretty together at the funeral."

"Well, we weren't – " I go to answer when the door to the lounge opens and Lydia barrels in. 

She takes one look at John and I and raises her eyebrows. "Sorry, if I interrupted anything."

"You didn't," I tell her, slinging a stethoscope around my neck and heading back out into the chaos of the ER, now fully prepared for battle. "We'll talk later, okay?" I address John, only leaving once I have seen his nod in reply. 

~ ~ ~

The next few hours pass in a whirl. Working has exactly the effect I thought it would do. I am immediately submerged in other people's problems to the extent where mine just fly out of my head. Kerry directs me towards all the easy cases at first – the triage and the sore throats and the parade of poor individuals who have managed to somehow embed foreign bodies in all parts of their anatomy. I have just finished extracting a wooden bead from up a little girl's nose, when Mark taps me on the shoulder. 

"You should take a break now," he instructs me. "You've been working hard enough all morning."

I shake my head, grabbing another chart from the rack. "I'm fine. I don't mind carrying on."

He all but wrestles the chart out of my hand, refusing to take no for an answer. "Go get some lunch in the cafeteria. After all, just think how bad it would look to all the patients if an ER nurse keeled over from low blood sugar levels."

I manage a weak smile. "Somehow I don't think I'll be slipping into that diabetic coma anytime soon."

"Better safe than sorry," he persists. "If I were you I'd make the most of this time now when you get the opportunity. In six hours time you're going to be begging for a break."

"All right, all right!" I finally cave in, my stomach siding against me with Mark. "I'll go."

"Good," he nods in satisfaction. "Hey, Carter. You busy?"

John looks up from the other side of the desk; just as I suddenly decide my fingernails are endlessly fascinating and gaze down to study them. 

"Not particularly," he calls back. "I'm just waiting on some labs on a kid with a fever."

"Then make sure Abby gets to the cafeteria will you," Mark orders John. "I don't want her suddenly deciding to stop off in OB and get a little extra work done."

"Uh, sure," John replies with his usual congeniality. "No problem."

I smile at him awkwardly as we head off up the stairs to the staff lunchroom. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know," he answers. "I want to. Besides, I thought we were going to talk."

"We are," I nod vaguely. 

"And is that going to be any time this millennium?" John probes. 

I shrug. "Maybe."

We continue in silence to the cafeteria, not speaking a word as we buy our food – identical plastic packs of cheese salad sandwiches with a ring doughnut to accompany John's. Polystyrene cups of coffee from the machine are next then, all distractions finally completed, we slide into opposite chairs at a small round table, our gazes drawn up to meet one another.

"So," I begin.

"So," John echoes with a grin, running his finger along the rim of his coffee cup. 

I busy myself unwrapping my sandwiches. "You know, if you want to talk then it generally involves actually saying something."

He nods. "Okay. Why did you break up with Luka?"

I look up sharply in response to the question, thinking that I should be berating him for even asking it. My love life is nothing to do with John, right? I tell myself that. And I tell myself that we're just friends too, but I'm finding it harder and harder to believe.

"Because…" I start to answer the question then trail off. "I don't know what to say."

John fixes me with a piercing look, one I can sense sees straight through all the bullshit I try to project to the world, straight past my defences and right at me. He sees the real Abby, and why does that scare me so much?

"How about the truth?" He suggests.

I push away my sandwich, knowing I'm not going to eat any of it. The bread is stale and dry and the lettuce warm and wilted, anyway. I don't know what possessed me to buy it in the first place. Appearances I suppose. I was doing just what's expected of me once more. Only maybe I'm sick of that right now. Doing that never got me anywhere. It never made me happy. 

"Maybe you don't want to hear the truth," I mumble evasively.

He leans forwards, touching my hand lightly. "The truth is the only thing I want to hear."

I pull my hand away, holding it up in the air in a 'stop' gesture and raising my voice to an anxious soprano. "Well, maybe _I _don't want to hear the truth."

He tilts back in his seat once more, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "Then I can't help you."

"What makes you think I need your help?"

He gets up, scraping the chair loudly across the floor with a horrible screech that makes me shudder inside. Before he goes he throws something down on the table – an envelope. I look the question straight at him, my expression just as bewildered as my feelings.

"It's my letter of resignation," he explains bluntly. "Give it to Kerry will you?" Then he turns and walks away from the table.

For one awful second I am staring at his back walking away from me. I am watching my best friend leave my life never to return to it. If I let him go things will never be the same between us again. We'll never have the easy rapport, the closeness, the tiny highlights in the day when we make each other laugh. I don't…I don't want to lose those. I don't want to lose him.

But if I call him back, things will never be the same again either, because John doesn't want to be friends anymore. He's put an end to that, because he can see so much more between us. So, I either have to have nothing or everything. I have to take that risk, make the bet, or lose the biggest stake of my life. 

"John, wait!" I call after him. He stops. "I didn't love him," I continue, my words causing practically everyone else in the cafeteria to turn around and stare at me. I cringe, but refuse to let myself be phased. "I never loved him," I repeat more softly.

John turns around. "Is that everything?" He asks in a tight voice.

I shake my head, taking a deep breath before my next course of action. Crazy-Abby rides again. I'm taking a leaf out of Mom's book and cutting loose for once. I'm dropping the hyper-control I once forced upon my emotions and am acting on impulse. Because now I finally realise something. 

_I'm not my mother. _

I look a little like her and I act like her sometimes, but I don't have to be afraid of becoming her anymore. Because she's not who I am. She ruled my life for the past thirty years, but now I'm free from her. She's dead and suddenly I'm aware of this giant irony. I spent my entire life fearing her. I didn't love her, I was afraid. Afraid of what embarrassment she'd put me through next, or of what call I was suddenly going to get at three a.m. informing me of the latest trouble she'd got herself in. I was scared of ending up like her to the extent that I turned out to be someone much worse. Someone who kept her emotions bound up so tightly that they destroyed her inside. And I don't want to be that Abby, anymore. I want to be honest and loving and high-spirited. I want to have hopes and dreams, not dreads and fears. I want to me more like Maggie, more like my mother. 

Because I know I can do that now. I can take her best features without also adopting her worst. I can follow in her footsteps without getting swallowed by her shadow. I can be my own person as well as being her daughter. 

I rip John's letter in two. "You're not resigning," I announce. "I won't let you."

He raises his eyebrows in astonishment. "And you're going to stop me, how?"

I further tear up the paper, scattering the pieces in the air around me. "I'm not sure yet. But I'll find a way."

He sits down again, hanging his head. "Please don't do this, Abby. Don't mess with me anymore, because I've had enough."

"I'm not…" I begin, struggling to find the right phrasing. I never was good at expressing my emotions and however much I change how I feel inside, there's no changing that. How can I put into words my most private thoughts? Hopefully, anyone who I care enough about to want to hear them, should know anyway, just because they know me, because they're near me. With the people you love the most – you don't need words. 

I lean over and kiss him softly on the lips, pulling back almost immediately through sheer self-conscious embarrassment. I cover my mouth with my hand and refuse to meet his eyes. 

"Abby?" He questions hesitantly, reaching out to touch my arm.

"Don't leave," I compel him and he shakes his head. 

"I won't. I promise."

_To be Continued??_


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N ~ Okay, this is the last chapter I'm afraid folks

A/N ~ Okay, this is the last chapter I'm afraid folks. Sorry if I took forever with this, but my computer decided to breakdown completely on me, which was not a pleasant experience, I can tell you…

Miles to Nowhere – Chapter Seven 

I gaze out of the window of the cab, watching the city lights zip by. They blur a little in the light fall of summer rain, the colours merging and sparkling like a giant kaleidoscope. It's beautiful really, not at all the dark emptiness I used to see, but more a living, breathing organism, pulsing with life. The city is always moving at a million miles an hour, a twisting spiral of birth and death, sadness and joy, love and heartbreak – sort of like a roulette wheel, really, spinning continually to decide the fate of its players. Only the prizes are so much more significant than just money. 

John reaches over to touch my lightly on the arm, his breath hot on my cheek, the scent of his aftershave enveloping me like a cloud.

"Are you okay?"

I turn back to him, smiling nervously, though I don't know what there is to be afraid of, since this is my best friend I'm here with right now. I've laughed with him, cried on him, yelled at him, even screwed him over a couple of times, and he still sticks by me. So, what possible reason could I have to be insecure with him right now?

"I'm fine. Really."

He pulls away, leaning back in the seat and raising one eyebrow at me. "Uh-huh."

"No," I say hurriedly. "This was a good idea – it really was. You know, going on a proper 'date'," I suddenly find the urge to make air quotes with my fingers overwhelming, then drop my hands hurriedly, ashamed of doing something so blatantly tacky. "It was really nice," I finish lamely. 

He chuckles. "It was a disaster."

I can't help but grin too. "Okay, but it was a nice disaster."

John flashes me a sceptical look. "My car broke down so we were late to the restaurant and they gave our table away. Then we had to wait until gone ten o'clock for dinner, by which time we'd eaten so many of the complimentary breadsticks that we didn't enjoy the meal anyway and it was too late to go on elsewhere."

"Maybe dinner and dancing isn't exactly our thing, though," I suggest pragmatically. 

He screws his face up in a mock frown. "Then what is our thing?"

I think for a few moments. "Uh…going on pointless road trips to little towns that don't even exist on maps? Gambling in Las Vegas? Going to the ballgame and yelling abuse at the players?"

"Letting down the tyres of your ex-husband's car?" He adds, laughing. 

"Bitching about Kerry Weaver behind her back?"

"Oh my God," he interrupts sighing loudly. "Did you hear about her new plans to colour code the charting system? Different pieces of paper for each person's separate complaint." 

I try to choke back a giggle and fail. "Somehow I think that one's doomed to failure."

"Oh, I don't know," he shrugs. "I would have thought the six extra tonnes of paperwork it'll create every week will go down extremely well."

We laugh together over the joke a little longer then lapse into a companionable silence. This is what I wanted, you see. I never needed fancy restaurants or flowers or mushy romantic gestures. Just him and me being ourselves together, letting loose, having fun, understanding one another. I'm not good about expressing my feelings, and neither was Luka. We'd keep all of our anxieties and emotions pent up inside, afraid to let them spill out and take over our lives. Then we'd hold one another in the hopes that the simple touch alone would make things better. But it didn't, because it was an empty touch. Our bodies met but nothing further, the comfort was cold, the metaphorical distance between us ever-present.

But with John, it's different somehow, in a way I could never explain even if you asked me to. He gets me. It's that simple. When I laugh with him, it's real – not just a way of being polite in the situation. When he looks into my eyes, he sees the emotions I'm hiding behind them. And when he touches me, it's because he knows that I need it and why I need it. He's in tune with the real Abby, the one I sometimes fail to acknowledge.

That scared me for a long time. I spent so much of my life afraid of who I was, where I came from and what I felt. Then I met this guy who loved me for those exact things I hated about myself. So, it was easier just to push him away, to keep up the pretence of being the Safe-Abby, the one who guarded her heart so tightly she could never fall in love back. But at the same time, a part of me revelled in it. I just wanted to be loved and accepted and he did both completely, so how could I not take solace in it?

The taxi comes to a stop outside my apartment building – it's the end of the line, the inevitably awkward conclusion to the evening. I always hated this part, because I never knew what to do or say. Mainly because I never even knew what I wanted to happen next. Do I say a quiet goodbye then slip out of the cab up the steps to spend a night alone? Or do I take a risk and gamble all my feelings on a chance to fall in love? First dates are always the worst, because there's no precedent, no history to help guide your judgement or your heart. Ironically, despite the disaster that was my first date with Luka, it was probably the main reason we got together in the first place. It gave us a starting point, a common bond. We shared something horrible that evening, when he killed that man, and the trauma was enough to catapult us into a relationship without any need to suffer through the difficult opening stages. 

With John, though, it's different again. _We're _different, because we already have a relationship already. Not the one we're trying to build here, of course, but a friendship. He's been in my apartment a hundred times before, so asking him up wouldn't be that big a deal, would it? 

"Abby," John nudges me gently. "We're here. Are you going to get out?"

"No," I blurt out without thinking. "I mean yes. I mean you should…you should come too. Upstairs for…coffee! I can make us some coffee."

_Way to go, Abby. Very smooth._

~ ~ ~ 

Somehow we get to talking and suddenly it's four a.m., the coffee pot is empty and it's just me and him sitting in silence at opposite ends of the couch. _This is it_, the little voice inside my head whispers. This is that make or break moment where my entire life could change in an instant. That is if it hasn't changed beyond recognition already. 

I've lost a parent and a lover all in a short space of time, and now I have no idea where my life is supposed to go from here. I'm still the same Abby as I've ever been, just with less inclination to hide from the truth, anymore. I'm an alcoholic. I destroyed a career, a marriage and a baby. But now I can accept those things as part of me, mistakes I need to learn from then put behind me. Mom was a part of me too, more than anything or anyone else I ever met and I hope she taught me things too. Like how to feel real emotions. I think she felt them too much, that was her only problem. Her highs were too high and her lows too low, but the principle is still there all the same.

Feel. Love. _Live. _She practically killed herself, but that's still the message I'll take from her. Because when she was with me she was always so vivid, so vibrant and so alive. Even when depression sucked every ounce of hope out of her, she still got mad. She was still a hurricane that swept through my existence and she still fought tooth and nail for what she wanted, even if what she wanted was the end of it all. 

And through it all I sat there with my heart locked up inside an iron box. Whenever I had a single twinge of feeling, I stomped on it. I crushed it before it had the chance to spiral out of control and lead me suddenly into a world of painting on walls, or road trips to Disneyland, or trying to gas myself in a sealed garage. Every time the sun shined a little too brightly or the clouds looked a little too grey, I worried. I was petrified of becoming her and in the process I became someone even worse. Someone who didn't care. 

But I'm gradually changing. It won't happen overnight, but I can feel the difference creeping over me already. I miss her. I actually miss having Mom around. I remember more of the good times and less of the bad. I'm beginning to have more faith in myself. I haven't told anyone yet, but I'm seriously considering taking that next semester of med school. I want to make more of myself than I have already, to actually earn some of that pride Mom was brimming over with for me. And, most significantly, I kissed John. I wanted to, so I did it. And he kissed me back – it was that simple.

I still feel a little self-conscious about it, like a part of me is screaming that it's my best friend and all I'm going to do is ruin things between us. But that part is easy enough to silence, because the rest of me knows I did the right thing. He was going to leave, to walk away from County and me and the spectre of _us _that has hovered in the air for so long. And all at once all these feelings bubbled up inside of me. I couldn't let him leave. I need him. I love him. 

I love him. I think that's the first time I've admitted it even to myself, because the mere thought of it terrifies me. I'm not someone who falls in love easily. I'm not a romantic who wears her heart on her sleeve and gushes endlessly about how wonderful her boyfriend is and how she couldn't possibly live without him. And I've never wanted to be like that. All I ever wanted was someone I could laugh with, someone whose hand would be there when I reach for it, someone who accepted me for who I am, someone who didn't need to hear the words to know how I feel. 

I don't know even now whether John is that person or not, but I guess I want to find out. I want to take the risk that was never there with Luka, to bet my heart on a chance I might finally win.

But wanting and doing are two completely different things. So, instead I just sit here, the last of my nerves holding me back as I stare intently down at my fingernails.

"Well…" John begins with a heavy sigh when at last it's clear I'm not going to say anything further. "I should probably be going, it's getting late."

He rises stiffly from the couch, his manner distant and formal. My stomach begins to sink – _I'm losing him again, he's drifting away because I'm too chicken to say anything, because this is so important to me that every time I even think about it my heart pounds in my chest and my throat begins to close up…_

"No!" I blurt out suddenly, almost choking on the word. "You don't have to go yet, it's not that late," I add hurriedly, desperately trying to think of some reasonable excuse for him to stay, to return to that comfortable status quo of being friends having coffee together, instead of two strangers awkwardly parting after a date. 

"It's four in the morning," he points out softly, smiling his little ironic smile that seems to communicate his complete understanding of the situation. He's done everything he can for our relationship, said the right things, made the right moves, and now the balls in my court. If I don't act now then we won't even be friends, he'll leave and we'll just be those strangers who once came close to loving one another. 

I kissed him once before – I can do it again. I can just lean over now and touch his arm and lose myself in his lips, in his embrace, in the silk of his skin and the musk of his scent. 

_But I'm afraid to be lost…to be out of control. So, so terribly afraid._

"Why is this so hard?" I ask with a short, bitter laugh.

John takes a small step closer, his eyes meeting mine. "It doesn't have to be."

I shake my head. "Yes, yes, it does. Everything in my life is hard – that's the way it is for me. Or hadn't you noticed?"

"No," he exhales a long, tired breath. "You've been through a lot Abby, but things are only as difficult as you make them. It was easy enough before, wasn't it?"

"Before when?"

"Before this, between us," he gestures vaguely with his hand. "When we were friends."

"Friendship is simple – you don't risk anything and you don't get hurt." I argue back at him, emotions bubbling up inside me. I can feel tears pricking the back of my eyes and an aching deep in my throat that usually means I'm going to cry, and I hate it. I shouldn't be getting upset, not over this. It's stupid. I'm stupid. He's just a guy, a guy with kind eyes and gentle understanding…and I don't need this right now. I don't need him. 

_Oh God, yes I do. _

"You're not going to get hurt, Abby," he says softly, advancing ever so slightly towards me.

"You don't know that," I babble back at him. "Mom never meant to hurt anyone. _I _never meant to hurt Luka. You love and then you hurt – it's a fact of life."

"Then deal with it!" He raises his voice in impatience. "Suck it up, feel it, _learn _from it. Just stop hiding away in this fucking cocoon you've built around yourself. Let yourself go for once and stop being so goddamn scared of _living_!"

"I am NOT scared!" I yell back at him, screaming in the hopes that the sheer volume of my voice will cover the lie. It doesn't, instead I just sound irrational and crazy. Like Mom.

I sink back down on to the sofa, holding my head in my hands. "Why are you still here?" I ask in a mumble. "Why do you put up with all of this?"

He sits lightly down next to me. "You know why," he tells me quietly, and I do. 

"But aren't you afraid too?"

John reaches out and softly brushes a strand of hair from my face, looking into my eyes. "Of course I am. Everybody is. I worry that I won't be able to get through another day without taking anything, that I'll be so busy fighting off the urge I'll make a mistake at work and hurt a patient, that the shadow following behind me is another man with a knife coming to attack me. But I face those fears – I have to, otherwise I wouldn't have anything left to live for."

I shake my head. "But I think I've forgotten how."

"How to live?" He questions teasingly. "It's easy – it just goes like this." He leans over and kisses me softly on the lips, causing my heart to race in my chest and sweat to break out on my skin. But it's not just fear, it's exhilaration too and I find myself wanting more.

I kiss him back, breathlessly, clinging to him with desperate hungry fingers. My head spins and it's like drinking five beers all at once, like that rush of alcohol that hits your blood, like the feeling of all uncertainty slipping away…

~ ~ ~

It's light when I wake up, sunshine insistently forcing its way through the gaps in the blinds. At first I expect a hangover – not in the literal sense but more of an 'oh-god-what-did-I-do-last-night' attack of nausea. But none comes, no cold sweat breaking over my skin, no throbbing ache starting in my head. No regrets. 

Instead I feel peaceful, calm, like the storm brewing inside me has suddenly blown itself out. This might be what it's like to be happy, but I'm not sure, it's been too long since the last time I was to remember.

I turn slowly over onto my slide, snuggling deeper under the warm covers as I do so. John's face greets me on the pillow next to mine, the corners of his mouth turned up in a stupid grin, his eyes dancing in amusement.

"Mornin'," he drawls sleepily.

"Hi," I respond shyly, memories of last night (or rather this morning) flooding back in vivid, NC-17 detail. A blush creeps over my cheeks and I roll back into supine position, staring up at the ceiling. 

John reaches his hand out for mine, entwining our fingers tightly, and I let him, the momentary awkwardness already slipping away at feel of his touch. Because it just seems so utterly _right_. 

"Sleep well?" He murmurs into my ear and I can't help but laugh, closing my eyes tightly so that my entire world is the sensation of his hand in mine and his hot breath against my cheek.

"No," I reply in mock grumpiness. "You kept me up. Repeatedly, if I remember correctly." 

He chuckles in return. "I'd like to say I'm sorry, but I'm really not."

A long pause breaks up the conversation, during which I'm acutely aware of his body lying next to me, his leg brushing against mine, his arm draped across my stomach. And I don't want him to move, not ever. 

He shuffles slightly closer to me and I revise my assessment. Maybe he can move, just a little bit. 

"How are you feeling?" He asks softly and my mind races quickly through the possibilities. How do I feel? – safe, loved, content, like I'm falling through the air at a million miles an hour straight into his waiting arms. But still a little afraid too, unsure of what the future may hold and not entirely ready to let him consume my entire life. Like an ordinary woman waking in the embrace of her extraordinary lover – that's how I think I feel. 

"Hungry," I settle on, trying to lighten the mood. I'll talk to him about my emotions soon, but for now I just want to make the most of the moment, live a little before I have to start analysing it all again. "Make me some breakfast."

"What d'you want?" He crawls automatically out of bed, then does a double-take. "I don't believe it – you've got me waiting on you hand and foot already."

"Yup," I reply teasingly. "That was the plan. And coffee and toast will be fine."

"Yes, m'lady," he performs an exaggerated bow then kisses me softly on the mouth, before pulling on his boxers and heading towards the kitchen. 

I smile after his retreating figure, my lips still tingling from his kiss, my thoughts laughing at the irony. 

One night and I'm already addicted. 

THE END

_A/N ~ _My God, finally it's finished. My most humblest apologies for taking so long to complete this, I went off sunbathing in France halfway through writing this chapter, which I'm sure won't make any of my distressed readers feel any better but did do me some good *grin*. 

Thanks for all the wonderful feedback I've had on this from both people who've reviewed and sent emails, it was a real inspiration to write more and very flattering, especially considering this is my first foray into ER-fic. 

And one final note – if you liked this story my friend Cath is writing a Carter POV to it, which you will find (alongside the rest of this) on her website [http://geocities.com/button_mush][1]. Thank you for reading. 

   [1]: http://geocities.com/button_mush



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